"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock says, hands stuffed in his pockets.
The driver smirks, "doesn't mean you don't need one."
Sherlock returns the smile, "it was you."
"I'm just the back of an 'ead, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. Being invisible is a great advantage for a serial killer."
Sherlock steps forward, "is this a confession?"
The man looks up at the windows of 221b, "if you call the coppers, I won't run. They can take me down, promise." He pauses, "but you'll never get to know how I did it."
"Did what?"
He cocks his head to the side and smirks again, "I didn't kill those four people. I talked to them," he admits, "but they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, you'll never find out what I said."
They stand in silence, surrounded by the sound of cars passing by, when a mousey, "Dad?" comes from the doorway.
Sherlock spins, eyebrows pulled together, "Hamish, go back inside," he says, a hint of steel in his voice.
Hamish flinches, not used to Sherlock using this voice on him. He doesn't move, his hand grips at the door frame, unsure whether or not to turn back.
"Nah," the cabbie says. He looks towards the small boy in the doorway, "if you want to understand, come with me." He nods towards Hamish, "bring him too." He climbs into the driver's seat and shuts the door.
Hamish looks up at Sherlock, who holds his hand out for him and nods.
"I'll keep you safe, I will not allow anything to happen to you," Sherlock whispers, taking Hamish's small hand in his and crouching, "I didn't let Victor hurt you, did I? So you have to trust me, I'm not going to let him do anything to you."
Hamish nods slowly.
Sherlock picks up a pair of battered trainers from beside the door, "put these on."
Hamish quickly pulls them on and is guided into the back seat of the cab.
John stands at the window, his mobile held to his ear, calling Jennifer Wilson's phone. He watches Sherlock guide Hamish into the cab, and it glides away from the curb. He frowns, "Sherlock just got in a cab. He took Hamish with him. They drove off."
Sally pulls a face, "told you so. We're wasting our time, he left again."
John looks to Lestrade, "the phone is still ringing. He isn't picking up."
"It's not here then?"
John shrugs when it goes to voicemail and cancels the call. He opens the laptop and looks at the map again.
"Does it matter?" Sally says, having returned from gathering the officers into the kitchen, "he's a lunatic who will always let you down, and you're wasting all of our time."
Lestrade sighs, "okay, we're done here. Let's go."
The Scotland Yard officers file out, some throwing distasteful looks at John, as though he's the one to blame for their overtime.
"Why'd he have to leave?" Lestrade sighs.
John shrugs, "you know him better than I do."
"I've known him for five years, and no I don't," he straightens his collar, "I put up with him because I'm desperate."
John stands still, watching him leave through the corner of his eye. Lestrade turns back when he reaches the door, "Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day if we're lucky, he might be a good one. Even if only for Hamish. He's a sweet kid, he needs stability in his life."
He smiles sadly and follows the officers down the stairs, leaving John alone.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asks, meeting the cabbie's eye in the rear view mirror.
He smirks, "I recognised you, Mr Holmes. When you were chasing my cab. Your fan, they warned me about you."
Hamish's head snaps up, concerned, "you chased him?"
Sherlock quickly shushes him, "my fan? Who would notice me?"
"Got yourself a fan," the cabbie chuckles, "and that's all you're gonna know. In this lifetime."
Sherlock sees Hamish's eyes widen, but he gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.
The cab pulls up outside two large buildings. The cabbie climbs out and holds open the passenger door, a dark look on his smiling face.
"Where are we?" Sherlock asks nonchalantly.
"You know every street in London."
He sighs, "why are we here?"
"It's open," the driver shrugs, "cleaners are in. Advantage of being a cab driver, always know a good place for a murder."
Sherlock pulls a face, "and you just walk your victims in?"
The cabbie lifts his arm, holding a gun aimed towards Sherlock. Sherlock moves in front of Hamish, his body language screaming, protect, his voice saying, "dull. You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."
"Don't worry; it's much better than that." He tucks the gun away, "don't need this, you'll follow me."
Sherlock sighs and pats Hamish's knee before climbing out of the taxi. Hamish goes to follow, but the driver slams the door shut, closely missing Sherlock's coat.
"I'll drop him off later," the driver smiles, "after I've talked to him too, though no one will believe a kid." He locks the doors and moves to guide Sherlock into the right building.
"Dad?" Hamish bangs his fist against the window twice and tries the door, but Sherlock slowly shakes his head as if to say, I'll deal with this. Hamish visibly deflates and slumps against the seat, curling in on himself and hugging his knees.
John tidies up as much as he can. He may not have decided whether or not to move in, but the sight of Sherlock's things strewn about so carelessly makes him uncomfortable. He's just looking over the scratches on his cane when he hears Sherlock's laptop begin to beep. He picks it up, still on the mephone website, and the map pops up.
He swears under his breath and runs down the stairs for a taxi.
He gives the driver the address of the college and leaps into the seat, pulling out his phone. He calls Scotland Yard, asking for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even his claims of an emergency take a while to get through, but eventually he reports the location as the cab pulls up outside the school, he groans, two identical buildings, just my luck.
He shouts a quick, "thank you!" to the driver and throws a few notes his way before climbing out to check the parked cab. He sees a child curled up on the back seat. Hamish's head snaps up when John taps on the window. His eyes are rimmed red, "John?"
John quickly decides what to do, "hold on," he shouts, tapping the glass again, "move to the other side of the seat, Hamish, and cover your eyes."
Hamish does as he's told, shuffling backwards against the opposite door and pulling his jumper up and over his face.
John plants his feet and braces himself to drive his elbow through the window. It takes two attempts, but finally the glass shatters onto the seat.
"Quickly," John says, motioning for Hamish to come forward, "but be careful, Sherlock would never forgive me if you hurt yourself after all this." Hamish crawls across the seat and sticks his arms out. John hauls him through the window, avoiding the shards of glass, "are you alright?"
He nods.
"Did you see which building they went into?" John says.
"No, sorry."
John guides Hamish to a seat in the reception area of one of the buildings, "it's okay, nothing to apologise for. Stay here. I'll find Sherlock and then we'll go home, alright?" He takes off his coat and drapes it around Hamish's shoulders. It's far too big and all but drowns him, but he snuggles into the chair and pulls the coat tightly around himself.
"Hurry," Hamish swallows thickly, "it didn't look good. The man has a gun."
John visibly pales, "stay." He takes off at a sprint, checking his belt for his own gun; I hope this is the right building.
